


Sacrifice in Summer

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: 1920s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Boners, Boundaries, Character Death Fix, Childhood Memories, Classical References, Closeted, Crying, Declarations Of Love, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ending Fix, First Kiss, First Time, First time with a man, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Gatsby has issues, Guilt, Gunshot Wounds, Healing, Heartache, Heroin, Historical Accuracy, Kissing, Legal History, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Medical History, Medicinal Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Money, Nightmares, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post Sacrifice, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Recovery, Relationship Issues, Romantic Friendship, Sacrifice, Self Confidence Issues, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Build, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vulnerability, always-gay!Nick, so does Nick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay Gatsby swims. George Wilson shoots. Nick Carraway jumps.</p><p>The aftermath of sacrifice reveals the fault lines that reputation and restraint once kept hidden.</p><p>*THIS IS THE OLD DRAFT (kept up to preserve comments and such) THE NEW, COMPLETED DRAFT IS NOW AVAILABLE * (just go to my profile to find it linked, or search or it - it has the same title as this draft, but is labeled 'new version')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jump

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe this angsty fic is also a fix-it fic? Well, it is! I swear.  
> It'll just take a while to not be sad.

* * *

  
I have, of course, already written at length about my time with Gatsby, yet there were some truths that I could not commit to a page likely to be seen by any eyes but mine. I have, thus, started a separate, private journal, entirely for myself, that will elaborate on these matters.

I must state first that there is an unexplainable closeness between myself and Gatsby. I can't say for certain when it came to be, only that it was there when it was needed most.

I will always, to some extent, regret not having stayed with him outright, on that fateful day when Wilson came to his lavish home, knowing that I might have spared him a few moments of terror and anguish, yet I cannot say I am sorry to have arrived when I did. The realization, if you could call it that, came over me like a chill. I have never given much thought to superstitions, yet the sudden urgency to return immediately to Gatsby was stronger than any feeling I've had before or since. Call it fate, call it an act of God - I don't know what it was. Only that he needed me, and so I went. Even as I ran, my heart pounding and my throat raw, I could feel the threat of something evil and dangerous looming over that house. When I approached the pool at last, I had only a moment to take in the sight and to act. I saw Wilson, then the gun, then Jay, his face slack with surprise, and all at once I was soaring through the air, crashing into Gatsby, pain erupting in my side and making me see stars.

For a dizzying moment, I thought I was too late, that it was Gatsby who'd been shot, and that the pain I felt was that of my heart breaking. Then, in a vague, sluggish way, I realized that I was being pulled up and out of the water, cradled against Gatsby's chest.

I stared at my side, where Gatsby's square hand was clasped in a good, tight, military hold to slow the bleeding, and watched as red seeped through his blunt fingers.

Faintly, I was aware of a commotion, of a second gunshot, of screams, of Gatsby shouting ("Someone call for a damned ambulance!") and then I lost consciousness. I regained it quickly, but already I had been moved into an ambulance. Gatsby was with me, and the hand that he had offered to stop the bleeding now clutched at mine, his fingers stained and sticky. My eyes rolled until I spotted him, blurred and floating over my shoulder.

"G-" I tried, but the name caught in my throat. He shook his head.

"Don't strain yourself, old sport. We'll be at the hospital soon, and everything will be all right."

I was too dazed to see that as the lie it undoubtedly was at the time, when Gatsby must have known I could easily die before the day was out. It was a comfort then, and even more of one when I realized, days later, that he must have feared the worst, yet put on a brave face for my sake.

When we arrived at the hospital I was once more lifted up and set down and lifted again and moved into a room where doctors and nurses poked and prodded at me, and someone gave me something that made me feel nothing but a strange, chemical happiness.

As the last traces of the drug slipped from my mind and I began to wake, I felt a pain in my side, but it was not as unbearable as it had been before. I opened my eyes and looked down at my bare chest, which was wrapped up in bandages, and at the place where the bullet had entered me. Then I looked up, and saw Gatsby, hunched in a chair, asleep.

I had never seen him sleep, and he looked serene, compared to his wild-eyed mania on that horrible afternoon when he confronted Tom. My fingers twitched and I wished I could touch his face for a moment, just to assure myself that he was really there.

I settled instead for watching the gentle rising and falling of his chest. I took time to study him, his build, his features. I let my eyes linger on the places I had always wanted to stare at, but didn't dare when he was awake. I suppose a better man might have felt ashamed to take such liberties, but I was still an invalid, and decided I was owed something, in case I were to die after all.

When at last Gatsby awoke, I was gazing at him with such longing that I wouldn't have noticed, had he not cleared his throat and shifted his weight.

I met his eyes and smiled faintly. A look of such sincere, beautiful happiness came over him then that I feared for a moment that I kiss him, before I reminded myself of the many reasons why I wouldn't, adding that I was also trapped in a hospital bed, and that he was too far away.

"Hello," I said to him softly. He stared at me.

"You... you're..."

"Awake? Yes. So are you, at last. You were asleep when I woke - I didn't have the heart to disturb you - you looked as tired as I feel."

He shook his head, blinked, and stared again.

"Forgive me... the nurses said you might not come round for days... weeks... perhaps longer."

"Well, I expect they don't like to get people's hopes up. Anyhow, I'm glad to see you. It's a pleasant surprise."

Gatsby raised his eyebrows.

"Is it a surprise, truly? You saved my life, old sport, I owe you so, so much more than thanks. This," he gestured to himself in the chair, "is nothing at all."

I chuckled weakly, which hurt.

"It's more than enough for me."

He shook his head again in disbelief.

"You're a saint, Nick Carraway."

I snorted.

"Hardly. Say, could you find me a glass of water? I'm terribly thirsty."

Gatsby jumped to his feet, nodding vigorously.

"Of course, of course, old sport. Is there anything else you need?"

"No, that's fine," I replied, and shut my eyes and rested while he went off to fetch me a drink.

I suppose I ought to make a note of this fact: that, as time went on, I had come to empathize with Gatsby, his obsession for Daisy, for I too had developed an unhealthy fixation. In part, it was why I supported him in his mad attempt at winning her hand - as he'd have given my cousin anything, I tried to give him the only thing I had that he wanted. The pursuit of her had ruined him, and it had been quietly ruining me, culminating in the fatalistic impulse to jump between him and Wilson's bullet at the pool.

He returned with a glass and a pitcher of water, poured the cool liquid, and brought it to my lips. It was messy - his hands were shaking and I was too weak to drink properly - but I got some of it down and he wiped my mouth and chin with his handkerchief, which smelled of him.  Sitting once more in the chair, he looked me over.

"You look like you've been to hell and back.”

"I feel it. How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost a day."          

I ran a hand over my jaw.

"I could use a shave," I remarked.

"I could -"

I looked up, surprised.

"What, you'd -?"

He turned a bit pink at my look of shock.

"Well, I won't, if you don't want it, but I could, if it's a comfort, old sport. It's no trouble."

I should have said no, I suppose, but I didn't. I was too weary, parties and people and pain all taking from me until I was nothing but a shade of my old self - I wanted something of my own, some moment to treasure, however insincere.

"Go on, then," I said.

He'd had some of my affects gathered and brought over, and my shaving kit was among them. As he worked some soap into lather, he spoke to me incessantly, and I could see he was on the verge of collapse - exhausted from worry and guilt.

"You needn't blame yourself, Jay," I insisted. "I certainly don't."

"Blame myself? Oh, of course not, no, I just -" he broke off and stared at the soap. "I suppose I am, a bit."

"I know. Don't. Really. I'll be all right."

He looked up at me and I gave him the most reassuring smile I could. He grinned and shook his head.

"A saint, really."

I rolled my eyes and tilted my head back, exposing my throat. He began to spread the lather and I was enthralled by the familiarity that only a man could offer when performing such an act. I could feel a tension in him, a hesitation in his movements, and was not surprised when he broke the silence.

"Why did you do it?" he asked finally. I studied his face - there was an unreadable look there, one I recognized from the night I'd agreed to invite Daisy for tea. He was once more at war within himself, unable to comprehend his gratitude.

"You got lucky. I tripped."

I smiled at him but he didn't. He shook his head.

"I'm serious... I haven't... even in the War... it takes a special kind of a man to do what you did."

He picked up my razor and turned it over in his hands.

"I need to know why, Nick, please."

The impulse to be honest with him was intoxicating. I sensed that, perhaps, he knew already, even if he didn’t realize what that knowledge meant. I felt my lips moving and couldn't seem to close them, try as I might, as I let the truth spill out.

"I would have thought you'd have understood."

He furrowed his brow.

"But, old sport, how could I possibly -"

"You'd have done it for her."

He stared at me.

"For Daisy," I clarified. "Maybe not now, I don’t know, but you'd have done it for her, once, wouldn't you?"

He frowned.

"Well, yes, of course, but I - that's different, surely."

"It's not so different," I said quietly. I had the presence of mind to drop my gaze, cheeks burning and heart thudding in my chest, as he realized what I was getting at. I wondered if he'd hit me. He hadn't seemed the type, but sometimes it’s so hard to tell if brutality lurks within a man.

"Oh," he said at last, so softly I almost missed it.

"Oh," I replied, and there was a bitterness in my tone that surprised us both.

I looked up and found that he, too, had dropped his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, swallowed, and coughed.

"I... I don't..."

"We really don't need to discuss it. I didn't tell you because I expect anything. I just thought you ought to know."

_Before you thank me, before you call me a saint. Know that I love you, that I used you, like you used me,_ I didn't say, but the meaning was clear. He looked pained. He moved to start shaving my jaw but I shook my head.

"Please, don't. I don't think I could bear it just now," I admitted, and the words sounded more like a sob. He nodded and handed me a cloth to clean my face of lather. He stood beside me, at a loss.

"Would you like me to visit again?" he asked, his voice strange and tight.

I looked at him even though I was sure that my face gave everything away, the pain and the longing both, and I nodded.

"But, friendship… even though -"

"Yes. You had your green light, and I have mine."

That was cruel, and I shouldn't have said it. Gatsby's face crumpled a bit but he composed himself enough to speak.

"Right. Well... I will be back to see you tomorrow afternoon, then, if you'd like. I can bring you any news and any message... and if you want anything to eat, or to drink, I could -"

"Just news is fine, and any messages from work, if there's a way to get them for me."

"Yes, of course."

He walked towards the doorway, paused, and departed. I sighed. I was so terribly weary, and my side hurt. I let myself take refuge in sleep, but it was not pleasant, and all night I tossed and turned with unsettling dreams of trenches, pain, Gatsby bleeding from the gunshot that had been meant for him. He looked at me with his face crumpling in despair.

_"I... I don't."_

In the dream, I wept, but it was all right, because he did, too.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gatsby has had time to think, and Nick has had time to rest. Now, they come together to discuss what to do with their current circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather 'information heavy' in that I did way more research than was probably warranted. As such, there are additional notes at the end.
> 
> I want to warn, also, for the use of the term 'pygmy' which some people find pejorative/disrespectful. Given that it's 1922 when this is set, more modern concepts of political correctness haven't come into play yet, so to be true to the voice of people of the day, I left it in. Hopefully you all understand that my motivations are stylistic, and that I'm not out to cause offense, or to upset anyone's apple cart. :)
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy the chapter! ^_^

* * *

As it happened, I have no way of knowing if Gatsby visited me after that, except that I was told he did, subsequently, by a kindly nurse. My next months were spent in and out of lucidity, floating to and fro in a comforting painless haze. The doctors administered heroin to ease the pain of my wound as it healed. Later, I learned that I had narrowly escaped death - the bullet had missed all my vital bits, and my organs were all left intact - but I was also informed that recovering from such an injury took a great deal of time, rest, and care, and that a drug-induced stupor was the best thing for me at the time.

At last, the doctors began to wean me off of opiates, and this is when I began to observe the world around me once again. The aforementioned kindly nurse, who washed, dressed, and fed me, spoke to me often of the kind man who came to see me, and how lucky I was to know someone so devoted.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Carraway," she said cheerfully, as she emptied my bed pan. "You'll be back on your feet, wooing girls with your handsome friend sooner than you think."

She said so every day, yet one day, she added:

"I've heard the doctors talking. They say you should be able to go home by Christmas. Isn't that nice, Mr. Carraway?"

The next morning was the first that I was actually conscious when Gatsby arrived. I woke at seven and noticed that there was a Christmas tree on my bedside table, decorated with miniature ornaments - drums and bobbles and tiny trumpets - and tinsel and garlands, of course. The poor thing seemed smothered by the weight of it all, but it was a pleasant bit of color in the otherwise bland room.

The nurse came to change my dressings and help me shave at 7:30, and at half past eight, a little cart came 'round with my breakfast and the morning paper. I had no desire to eat, but I managed a glass of water and a few mouthfuls of porridge. At nine o'clock, Gatsby arrived, his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist from the cold. He was startled to see me awake, and, at first, he seemed unsure of how to approach me. When I made no move to forbid him, he tentatively crossed the threshold of my room and sat in the chair by the bed. He appeared to be on the verge of speaking, yet he held his tongue. When it became clear that he would not be the one to break the silence, I sighed and glanced sideways at him.

"I want to apologize," I admitted. Gatsby's eyes widened and he shook his head.

"There's no need to -"

"Please, Jay, let me speak."

He lowered his gaze.

"Of course, old sport."

I cleared my throat.

"I don't want you to think I'm at all upset with you. The nurse told me you visited - you're the only one who did, other than Jordan, and that was only twice. I am sorry if I've caused you an inconvenience - in any way."

He shook his head again.

"You couldn't be an inconvenience... not when... you saved my life, and, whatever your... motivations... I have you to thank for every day I’ve drawn breath these past months."

He paused and glanced at the tree.

"Do you like it?"

I was not surprised that it was his doing - it seemed gaudy enough. I nodded.

"It's grand," I said, and meant it. I met Gatsby's eyes and offered him a smile, which turned into a grimace of pain as my leg twitched. He shot up from his chair, alarmed.

"What's the matter, old sport? Should I get the doctor?"

I managed to shake my head.

"But surely he could do something!"

"I'm afraid," I hissed through clenched teeth, "that this is quite normal, or so I'm told, for one in my condition."

Gatsby made a noise of comprehension.

"Yes, yes, the opiates... sorry, I didn't think."

"It's quite alright."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I'd appreciate a distraction. Tell me what's been going on - I feel as though I've been asleep for years."

A strange look passed over Gatsby face.

"Of course, you wouldn't know."

He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, staring into the boughs of the miniature tree as though they held unfathomable secrets.

"Jay?" I prompted. He nodded slightly.

"I don't want to alarm you," he said, and then began to recount what had happened while I had been incapacitated.

"Technically speaking, I'm awaiting trial."

The shock showed on my face.

"But you -"

My eyes widened in horror.

"You didn't lie for her. Tell me you didn't!"

I had never seen Gatsby look sheepish until that moment.

"I know you don't approve, but please let me continue, as that's hardly the most important development. May I go on?"

I grumbled an affirmative and he began again.

"My bail was easily paid. I have spoken to my lawyer and he is sure that it's unlikely I'll be charged. One of the key witnesses changed his statement, and there's evidence that Myrtle was running from her husband - some sort of domestic dispute, apparently. With luck, and a competent jury, I'll be fine."

I could hear the worry in his voice and I reached out and offered him a clammy, sweating hand. He looked at it, then at me, and gave it a brief squeeze.

"I've been learning what I can about what I can expect if I... in the worst possible scenario. I spoke to a man about it, who knows the prison system well. He's - don't make that face, Nick, _he_ isn't a criminal. He's a warden. He has theories about the whole sorry business, and says that it's mostly poor men who face the chair. It's a grisly prospect, but it means that, with my finances, I should be able to preserve my life, at least."

He tried to smile, but it wasn't much of an attempt.

"When is the trial?" I asked, after some thought.

“In the new year."

"I want to be there," I blurted out and he furrowed his brow.

"Are you sure? I know how you feel about what I'm doing, but I can't have you exposing it."

I shook my head.

"If you are determined to save my cousin, I will not stop you. No matter what, I'll stand by your decision, and if I'm well enough to get out of this bed, I'll be there in a show of solidarity. Besides, you'll probably need the support."

Jay visibly relaxed and patted my arm collegially.

"I'm glad of your friendship, old sport. Really, I am. You're so much more than I deserve."

"It's nothing."

"I wish... I wish I could give you... what it is you want. I feel so awful, relying on you like this, when you -"

I sighed with displeasure and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

"It's all right, Jay, please."

"I want you to be happy."

He took my hand again and met my eyes, his own sad and guilt-filled.

"You deserve to be happy, Nick, more than any of us do."

With what felt like a momentous effort, I forced myself to remove my hand from his.

"Yes, well. That's kind of you to say. If you want to be even kinder, you could read me the newspaper."

I pointed to where it lay, beneath the overladen branches of the pygmy Christmas tree. He picked it up and unfolded it.

"What section?"

"Any one. Sports, I suppose."

Jay nodded and read the sports to me, and then the front page, after which my lunch arrived. He stayed with me while I forced down some soup and a bit of toast. After my meal, the doctor came to give me my reduced dose of heroin, and Jay said goodbye, promising he'd see me again soon and he'd try to find a book to read me.

As the opiates came into effect, my concerns about Gatsby’s impending trial faded into nothingness, and I spent the afternoon watching light reflecting off the bobbles on the tree, making dappled patterns on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, explanations:
> 
> Seeing as it's now the winter of 1922, Nick would likely have been given heroin, not morphine, as an opiate, since the reforms to this practice only came in in 1925.
> 
> The warden that Gatsby mentions is, in fact, the real-life warden, Lewis E. Lawes, who was the warden at Sing Sing in New York at the time this story took place, and was also an advocate against the use of the death penalty. There's more information about him here, if you're interested:
> 
> http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/11/06/a-man-who-knew-about-the-electric-chair/?_r=0
> 
> Also, re: the trial, the information I'm working with is this record of historical penal law in New York for the period:  
> http://ypdcrime.com/penal.law/article125.htm
> 
> I don't honestly know what the backlog for trials was back then, and haven't been able to find it, so I estimated that it would take until the new year for it to come to court.
> 
> Hopefully that's all the info you need. My battery is dying, so I must go now. :)


	3. Read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter to tide you over until I'm back from my weekend away. :)
> 
> Again on opioid laws: you couldn't get heroin for recreational use, but could get it with a prescription in 1922, and this was the case in the US until 1924, I believe (as always, correct me if I'm wrong, please!)
> 
> Also, the poem Nick reads is an exerpt from Walt Whitman's Calamus Leaves/Live Oak with Moss, because Walt Whitman is a damn good poet, and puts most homoerotic writers to shame. (Plus he's a cool dude - seriously, read about him.)
> 
> Here's a link to a website with the full poem in it: http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/liveoak.html
> 
> Compared to the last chapter, there is visibly less research. However, I did spend the better part of my morning trying to find a record of the weather in New York city on December 20, 1922, and couldn't find one, so I axed a few paragraphs and didn't bother bringing the weather into it as much as I would have liked.
> 
> Also, for those of you Canucks reading this, Happy (early) Canada Day! I have done my patriotic duty and bought the limited edition Chapman's Canada Flag ice cream block, so my work is done for this year, anyway. I'm saving myself for the 4th of July, when I can party by myself, since no one else around me is a US citizen but my Dad, who doesn't really do the 'tons o' booze and dubious backyard fireworks' type stuff. :P
> 
> Cheers and hope you enjoy!

* * *

Despite my official designation as an invalid, I was very busy in the weeks that led up to my release. As my use of opiates declined, I was able to do all sorts of things that had previously been impossible. My first task was to write to my boss and tell him that I was going to resign. I decided, during my recovery, that I would find a new job in the new year, something untainted by crooked business, preferably, and more interesting than bonds. Having narrowly escaped death, I felt as though I had been given a second chance, and I intended to make good use of it.

One morning, I spotted an advertisement from a radio program wanting a script writer, and decided to try my luck. Patty, that dear, sweet nurse of mine, took it in herself, and spent her entire day off waiting for them to telephone her with news. The next morning she told me, nearly moved to tears with happiness, that I'd got the job, and was to start work in January. I thanked her profusely, and told her that if I ever wrote any book worth publishing, I'd dedicate it to her, which made her blush and stammer until the head nurse came to snap at her for dallying too long on her rounds.

When I was not writing, I was reading as many legal papers as I could, making note, in a small leather-bound journal, of anything I thought could help Gatsby with his case. In retrospect, of course, I realize that his lawyer must have known everything I was scribbling down, but it kept me busy, and feeling like I was able to help, if only in a small way.

A date was set, December twentieth, that I was to leave the hospital. When Gatsby found out, he insisted that I be relocated not to my small property, but to a guest room in his house, if only for the holidays.

"My house is just next door-" I began, but he interrupted me sternly.

"It's the least I can do. Please, spend the holidays with me. It would do you good to have some company."

I was hesitant at first, but when he insisted that it would only be the two of us there, that there would be no parties, I was swayed, and so, on the morning of the twentieth, I was bundled up in a coat and blankets and transported to his property in West Egg. He was waiting for me, his hands stuffed in his pockets. When I rolled up in the taxi, he came out to greet me himself and help me up the stairs and into the house.

It was slow going - my side still ached and I was unsteady on my feet after so many months of bed rest and limited exercise. I was acutely aware of just how thin and frail I'd become, as the clothes I'd brought from home, once well-tailored and comfortable, now hung off my frame. Gatsby supported me as he led me indoors, the walls now decorated for the holidays with festive bunting and garlands and sparkle and shine. Even for him, it was excessive, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was trying to make the most out of the last few weeks before the trial, just in case his freedom proved less secure than he thought.

As splendid as the hallways and stairs were, the guest room actually left me speechless. The entire room was full to the brim with poinsettia flowers, glittering silver snowflakes that were suspended from the ceiling, and enormous wrapped presents. Gatsby stepped on one accidentally as we walked from the doorway to the bed, and it crumpled instantly. I suppressed a snort - they were all empty.

"What is it, old sport?" he asked as he helped me recline on the luxurious bed. He drew a fur pelt over me and I marveled at it, letting its softness tease at my fingertips.

"Lapland reindeer," he explained and I nodded.

"It's very..."

"Yes?"

"It's very warm."

He looked pleased.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked. "Coffee? Hot chocolate?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I said with a weary smile. "Really."

"You're sure? You need only ask and I'll get it for you."

"Well," I pondered, "perhaps fewer flowers?"

His face fell.

"You don't like them."

"They're a fine gesture, but they're a bit more extravagant than necessary."

There was a tense silence that Gatsby broke with a sigh.

"You know, old sport, I have no idea what it is you do like," he admitted in a small voice.

"You had other priorities - I understand completely. Besides, your company is all I need."

His cheeks colored and he looked away, embarrassed.

"Nick, I..."

"I know you don't share my... inclinations. We're still friends, Jay. That doesn't have to change, unless you want it to," I added hastily. He shook his head.

"I don't. I've had enough of change, this past year. You're one of the only constant things I have left."

The sadness in his voice made my heart ache and I wished that I had something useful to say.

"What would you like me to do, as your friend?" he asked at last, brightening. "Fluff your pillows, perhaps? Read to you? I have a -"

"- a great many books, yes, I know. I _have_ been here before; there's no need to trouble yourself with unnecessary pretense," I said, grinning (as I found his enthusiastic hospitality nothing short of endearing.)

"There must be something..."

I considered. There were a great many somethings, but none of them were things he'd ever do with me.

"To be quite honest, what I'd like to do is to go do some Christmas shopping, seeing as I've had to leave it so late this year. You couldn't take me into town, could you?"

For a moment, Gatsby paused, with a very peculiar expression on his face, but then he seemed, almost immediately, himself again.

"Yes, that sounds like a marvelous idea, old sport. Here, let's get you up out of that bed and down the stairs, and I'll arrange for the car."

When I saw the car, at last, I was surprised for two reasons: first, it was a new car, and this one was everything the old one was not - small, dark, and plain; second, that Gatsby had hired a driver, and sat in the back. I joined him, and nearly asked about it before he interrupted me, asking if I wanted to go to the bank.

We spent the rest of the day in the city. Immediately, Gatsby insisted on buying me a very handsome walking stick so that I wouldn't need to lean on people and walls constantly, and could have some autonomy. At four in the afternoon, we split up for an hour to buy gifts for each other, whereupon I realized that I couldn't think of a single thing to get Gatsby that he didn't already have.

The usual gifts were all out - he had enough ties, cufflinks, and handkerchiefs to last at least a hundred lifetimes. He didn't care for sweets or novelty items and I selfishly refused to so much as consider bringing any more flowers into the house. I exhausted every possibility, but when we met up at five thirty, I remained empty-handed.

We dined at a restaurant in town and then retreated to Gatsby's house, arriving there at about seven thirty. Neither of us was particularly tired, so we retreated to the library with very good wine of mysterious origins and read to each other as we got deliriously drunk.

At first we read silly things to each other - short poems or lighthearted little stories. All around us lingered a warm, light-hearted atmosphere that felt like a balm for the soul, smoothing over some of the damage inflicted by the events of the summer. As the light faded, we lit lamps and scattered books in every direction, piling them up as if to barricade ourselves in, protected from the realities of our circumstances.

We had moved on to a second bottle when Gatsby tossed a book in my direction with a slurred 'have you read this one?' I opened it without hesitation, yet as I realized what it was he had given me, my mind began to race. I couldn't understand why he would have chosen this particular book, aside from the obvious assumption that I sympathized with its content, and found myself frozen, my face hot and my eyes blurred from the drink.

"Well, old sport? What's it say?" Gatsby mumbled from where he lay, sprawled over a small mound of encyclopedias, a small, linen-bound volume open over his face. When I did not respond, he lifted a corner of the tome and peeked out at me from under it, and I was so drawn to his boyish charm in that moment that I had to shut my eyes and count to ten before I could so much as speak.

My voice sounded strange when I raised it, wavering and weaving its way through the words of the poetry in front of me.

"I have found him who loves me, as I him in perfect love, with the rest I dispense... I sever from all that I thought would suffice me, for it does not - it is now empty and tasteless to me, I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the examples of heroes, no more..."

I glanced at Gatsby, whose eyes were shining in the lamplight, whose lips, parted, made me burn and ache, whose hair had fallen out of his place, strands stuck to his forehead with sweat, whose cheeks were flushed from imbibing, and said the rest of the poem from memory. (He had, all else aside, been right in assuming I'd read it before, a good many times.)

"I am indifferent to my own songs... I am to go with him I love, and he is to go with me... It is to be enough for each of us that we are together... We never separate again."

The words lingered, heavy, in the air, and I could sense that a boundary had been crossed. Which one of us crossed it, I couldn't say, but it was more than likely my fault. It struck me, suddenly, that neither Gatsby nor I had really considered the implications of maintaining a close friendship after my declaration. I wondered if it was even possible to do such a thing - after all, had I not told him that the past was impossible to recapture? In my heart, I still believed it, and yet here I was, drinking with him in his house, in his library, the two of us like schoolboys out past curfew.

I have never felt as stupid as I did in that moment. The book fell from my fingers and I couldn't bring myself to retrieve it.

"... wrong, old sport?"

I jumped and found that Gatsby was standing much too close to me. He laid a hand on my shoulder in what I was sure was meant as a brotherly gesture, and all at once, it was too much. I flinched away from him, causing pain to shoot through my side. Gatsby cried out in alarm.

"What can I do?" he asked, desperate and stricken, and there were so many answers beading on my lips and the tip of my tongue, crawling up from the depths of my wounded body and pooling in my throat like bile, and in that moment, he seemed so oblivious to my suffering, so blindly cruel that I was tempted to strike him.

The urge was gone as quickly as it came and I fell against the bookshelves, pain and anguish tearing at my flesh like starved wolves.

"What can I do?" he asked again, and when I met his too-bright eyes, I saw fear in them. Perhaps he too realized that I could ask for anything, at his own urging. Perhaps, and it was wrong of me to think it, but I did just the same, perhaps he feared that he'd give in to my demands.

"Nick?"

He reached for me, supporting my sagging body. Words raced out of my mouth to freedom, trampling one another, pushing each other out of the way.

"Heroin," I managed, "for the pain."

Sadness, disapproval showed on his face now, but that didn't hurt half as much as the fact that the fear was gone, replaced with pity and concern.

"Are you sure?"

"You said you would get me anything."

I could see it in his face, that he was retreating, that he was building a wall between us and that I was helping to set each brick in place.

"I know, and I meant it, but it's too late, now, old sport. If you still want it tomorrow, we can try to get you a prescription in the morning."

I nodded, faintly, in his arms, my mind churning with a hundred emotions and not one of them good.

He offered to walk me back to my room but I elected to go there myself, dragging along the wall like an insect. I felt wretched, the wine like a sickness inside me - I hadn't had a drink since I was shot and to suddenly imbibe so heavily made me feel like a marionette who's puppeteer had cut his strings.

When I saw the room again, still full to the brim with flowers, like some seasonal parody of the peacocking that had occurred when I'd invited my cousin and Gatsby to tea in the summer, I nearly left. It wasn't that far to my house and I wanted to be back in my own bed, where the stains of my most secret of dreams lingered, hidden, on sheets that Gatsby would never see.

If I hadn't been exhausted, I might have attempted an escape, but as it was I staggered to the bed and burrowed into it, tugging my clothes off as I did until the reindeer pelt lay against my bare skin. It felt exquisite and the comfort made me cringe.

When sleep took me, I dreamed of nothingness, a black, unending expanse that stretched out infinitely in all directions. It was a lonely sort of a dream, cold and unfeeling, yet it was a comfort to me. There's a freedom in isolation - I could weep or scream or abuse myself and no one would know or care. Even in the dream, I recognized this, yet all I did was sit, alone in the dark, until the universe devoured me and scattered the fragments of my consciousness to the wind.

 

 


	4. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I actually wrote a sonnet just for this fic. Seriously, I am too dedicated to this shit. If I had this kind of dedication to work or school, I'd probably be a success by now lol.
> 
> The newspaper headline is based of a similar one I saw for 1922.
> 
> (Also, warning that considerably more angst is coming in the next chapter, as well as drug use. This one is happy by comparison.)

* * *

The next morning, when I appeared for breakfast, Gatsby apologized profusely for the previous night.

"There's no need for you to apologize for my shortcomings," I responded, helping myself to some toast. "I know I've got no chance with you. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It was the wine, mostly."

I looked at him and shrugged.

"I really am trying."

He sighed

"I know you are. Look, old sport, I had assumed we could get by without ever discussing this but clearly we need to establish some -"

"Restrictions?"

"Boundaries."

I nodded and stared at my eggs. They were going cold, but I couldn't bring myself to eat them.

"Right," he continued, when it was clear that I wasn't going to speak. "What suits you?"

"No more drinking together like that, not for the foreseeable future, anyway," I supplied and he agreed.

"No more unnecessary intimacy -"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you helping me up the stairs, or putting your hand on my arm, or lighting my cigarettes-"

"But you've been shot-"

"I can walk by myself. None of that, Jay. Please."

He nodded and I took a bite of my eggs, trying not to gag as they slid down my throat, cold and coagulated.

"Would you like to stay here, at all?" he said suddenly. "It occurs to me that I sort of swept you up in all of this..."

I chose my words carefully, thinking them over for some time before I voiced them.

"I would like to stay here, for the holidays. Spend Christmas with you. Be friends, properly, with you. It would help me, I think."

Gatsby nodded and we finished our breakfast in silence. He went out to speak to his lawyer at half past 2, and I went up to the guest room and wracked my brains for something I could do to cement my strictly platonic feelings for Jay. I had been toying with the idea of writing a poem for him ever since I returned from the shops empty-handed, but the intimacy of it, if handled  inexpertly, could give me away. I had hesitated to put pen to paper for fear of merely confessing in more detail the feelings that Gatsby was already aware of. Still, the 25th was only a short time away, and I couldn't think of anything else to get him to mark the occasion.

With trepidation, I gathered the necessary supplies and began to write.

As the afternoon wore on, crumpled drafts were scattered all across the floor. It was evening before I'd come up with something I deemed acceptable, what with prose, not poetry, being my strong suit, and then I had to recopy it neatly and without any mistakes. At last, it was finished, and I took a moment to admire it objectively.

I had ultimately chosen to write a sonnet, since it was inherently formal in structure, which would hopefully keep me from simply spilling out endearments and affection all over the page. Even this was a risk. I sincerely hoped that Gatsby wasn't as opposed to traditional poetry as some of the men of our generation - certainly it was, at best, out-of-fashion to write them, when fellows like Owen and Sassoon had remade verse with the scraps and shreds of broken humanity, dispelling illusions and casting harsh light on the uglier aspects of the experience of war. I was relying on the fact that Gatsby had a fondness for decorative things, and that, if all went well, the formality of the sonnet might appeal to him like some sort of antique.

Like it or not, I'd used the last of my writing paper, so I hoped it would do. I folded it and hid it in my bedside drawer, where it sat until Christmas Day.

+++

When Christmas Day dawned, bright and hopeful, and I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The joy was palpable and the cheer of the season was infectious. I descended the stairs and found Gatsby sitting with a cup of coffee, reading the newspaper.

"Merry Christmas," I said as I took a seat beside him. There were plenty of sweets about, including a bowl of sugarplums on the table, and I popped one in my mouth with childish enthusiasm.

"Same to you."

"Any news?" I asked. He shrugged and set the paper aside, helping himself to a slice of gingerbread from a platter to his right.

"Just the usual," he said between bites. "Nearly a dry Christmas Eve for New Yorkers and so on."

I thought of the sheer inaccuracy of that statement and chuckled.

"Any plans for today?" he asked me.

"I don't know. I thought I might go for a walk around the property - the fresh air might do me good - and I plan to call my parents if only to assure them that I'm all right."

"I've never asked, since I didn't want to pry, but you did tell them you were shot, didn't you?" Gatsby asked. I shook my head.

"No sense worrying them. What are you going to do with yourself? Surely you must have been invited to some parties or concerts or something."

"I got a few invitations, but I don't plan on going. They only want me there so they can talk about the trial, and I don't really feel like being their entertainment. I think I'm going to spend the day being horribly self-indulgent and actually get some rest."

"Well, if you need me to keep out of your way, I will. You deserve some peace and quiet, Jay, we both do. It's been one hell of a year."

"You don't need to leave. I don't mind if you're here - it's everyone else who's upsetting me with their constant prying into my legal affairs. Besides, I have to give you your present."

"When would you like yours? Should we wait until the evening, or just do it now?"

Jay shrugged, reaching for a sugarplum.

"I don't see why we shouldn't do it now, if we both want to."

Agreeing, I excused myself and left to retrieve his gift from my nightstand. I read it over and worried if I had made a terrible mistake in writing it. For a moment, I considered tearing it up, but I'd already told him I had a gift for him and there was nothing of mine I could substitute for the poem if I destroyed it.

"Are you coming down, old sport?" Gatsby called from the end of the hall and I shouted an affirmative and slipped the poem into my pocket.

We took a seat on the stairs without pretense, and I was struck by how intimate and comfortable it was - the two of us in our shirtsleeves, mine rolled up, his tie pulled loose and his hair slightly out of place - as he pressed a small box into my hands.

"It's nothing especially fancy, but I know how you dislike gratuitous excess so... I hope you like it," he said with a small smile. I opened the box and my eyes went wide.

Inside were some of the most exquisite cufflinks I had ever seen. They were gold, with tiny carved vines and flowers weaving around each other, surrounding an inlayed disk of polished, dark green jade. I picked one up, turned it over, and saw that they were engraved on the underside in a tiny, cursive script.

_To:  N_

_From: J_

I felt suddenly that my poem was terribly inadequate.

"Would you like me to help?" he asked, and when I didn't respond, he took the box and cufflinks from me and began to roll down my sleeves.

When his fingertips brushed along the tender skin on the inside of my arm, I watched numbly, entranced. He attached each cufflink with graceful familiarity and I could have sworn that his fingertips lingered against my wrist for a moment longer than necessary before he withdrew his hands and smiled.

"They suit you," he exclaimed. I stared at them, then at him. When I didn't speak, he frowned at me.

"What's the matter, old sport, don't you like them?"

"They're beautiful, Jay, they really are. This is the finest thing anyone's ever given me. I'm afraid my gift is a terrible embarrassment, compared to this."

"I'll be the judge of that. Come on, let me see it," he grinned and I withdrew the paper, which I'd crumpled slightly when I'd stuffed it in my pocket.

"I should warn you - it was a last resort. I couldn't think of anything you didn't already have, so I thought I ought to make you something - it's so terrible, you should just rip it up-"

I fell silent as he unfolded it and the grin slid from his face, replaced with a singular focus. He read the words softly under his breath.

__

_ The Jaybird _

_Once, in summer, I chanced upon a bird_

_Plain in plumage, humble in origin._

_His nest, to make his happiness assured,_

_Had num'rous treasures tucked away within._

_When he went out upon the wing to spy_

_Each shining stone, each bead, each shard of glass,_

_He did it with intent to let them lie_

_Inside his home, enshrined in twigs and grass._

_One day, a great wind blew his nest away,_

_And from his place high in the tree he fell,_

_And I came to his aid, intent to stay,_

_And friendship kept him safe till he was well._

_Someday he'll venture back out on the wing,_

_And surely then, that dear, brave jay, will sing._

I swallowed and stared at my hands, my face burning with shame. It sounded ridiculous out loud - pretentious and horrible - and to hear Gatsby's voice reading my words hurt me terribly.

"Nick... you... wrote this? For me?"

I nodded, unable to speak for fear of being sick all over the stairs.

I was shocked to suddenly be drawn into a tight embrace. I was stiff and unresponsive at first, but slowly my arms wound around his sturdy torso in a hug.

We sat like that for one or two minutes at least before he let go of me, just as suddenly.

"Forgive me that was... this is the nicest thing anyone's ever given me," he admitted quietly, his voice quavering slightly.

"You really like it?" I brightened. He nodded, his cheeks pink and his hair falling over his face.

"It's marvelous – you… you're marvelous, Nick. You're so marvelous."

I couldn't help myself, caught up in the embrace and the praise, and I reached out and smoothed Gatsby's hair back into place. He tensed and something changed in his eyes. I withdrew my hand.

"Sorry," I breathed. He shook his head.

"My fault," he murmured.

He was so close to me, even then, and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. I realized that he was going to kiss me as he moved slightly closer and let my eyes fall shut, elated, happier than I'd been in living memory.

The kiss didn't come, of course. When I opened my eyes, he was getting to his feet and leaning on the bannister.

"I'm so sorry, but I just remembered that I promised one of my business associates that I'd meet them for lunch. I'm afraid I have to go."

I was skeptical, disheartened, bitter, but I held my tongue.

"Thanks for the tremendous poem, old sport."

"Thanks for the cufflinks."

He left and I was alone, the stairs uncomfortable beneath me. I buried my head in my hands and sighed.

_What did you expect, Nick Carraway? He's never going to be yours._

The thought made tears come to my eyes, but solitary as I was, there was no one to witness them but the twin jade disks, glinting on my wrists, resting on me like a heavy gaze.

Somewhere outside, Gatsby was running from me. Somewhere outside, the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg watched him run.

On the stairs, I tore the cufflinks from my sleeves and cast them down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, so two things need to be said:
> 
> 1) There is angst in this chapter, but not only angst, and it ends happier than I'd intended it to.
> 
> 2) I am, for the moment anyway, nixing the heroin plot point. Why? I am not good enough at writing to do it justice. Seriously, the more I research, the more I realize I'm out of my depth. So I'm going with movie canon and making Nick an alcoholic because, while I've never taken opiates, I have definitely been this wasted before, and can write it more confidently. Sorry, I know some of you were really looking forward to that. I don't like letting people down, but I just can't make it work. :'(
> 
> ***Also, Nick is kind of douchey because he's tired and worn out and horny and sad. He's not really a douche though, so he'll redeem himself once he's worked out some of his issues. He doesn't actually, in my portrayal, hate Daisy, or anyone, really (I don't see the point of character bashing.) He's just really burnt out at the moment (if you've ever gone a week with bad sleep, sexual tension, and/or extreme stress, you probably know what I mean.)***
> 
> Hope you like the chapter anyway!

* * *

The days between Christmas and New Years were horrible. Gatsby found the cufflinks at the foot of the stairs. I had shut myself up like an exile in the guest room, so I missed the moment when he spotted them, but when I woke the next morning, I found them on my nightstand.

I looked around me at the wilting poinsettias, sagging and curling with the beginnings of decay, and the beautifully wrapped boxes of nothingness - (and of course, she'd have had things in the boxes, if it were her who were injured and not me - he'd have filled all the boxes in the world for her, I thought bitterly) - and back at the cufflinks, and felt sick.

That’s how it began.

We didn't speak about it, but I could see that I had hurt him. Gatsby tread very lightly when I was near, keeping a distance between us, during which time I wrote and drank and wandered around the huge, empty house. I hated that I was being so hot and cold, and I knew I should clear the air, explain my actions to him, but I couldn't help but think that he must have been so unbelievably tired of hearing about me and having to walk on eggshells around my stupid, love-struck heart, and, selfishly, I didn’t feel like wasting my breath.

We did nothing for New Years.

On it went, then. I said nothing, he said nothing, and the tension grew between us as his hurt turned to bitterness, and then to frustration. I wondered if I left it long enough, if he would hate me. I wondered if I could ever hate him and free myself from the bonds of unwanted affection.

Our silence was broken on January 5th, when Jordan telephoned for me.

She wished me a belated Happy New Years and asked about my injury, which was to be expected, and I told her it was all right, which was just as predictable. She asked if I wanted to see her.

I thought about it for as long as I could. I was of two minds about it, but she added that she would like to see me, I decided to say yes.

We met for a luncheon in town and took a taxi to a store that had a beautiful hat on display in the window. She looked at it, and then at me, and then she spoke.

"Your cousin would certainly appreciate such a fine gift."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I'm sure if she wants it, her husband would buy it for her."

"She would appreciate it more if it were to come from you. You should see her, Nick, she's in bits."

I felt my cheeks flushing and I tried to contain my anger.

"She has an interesting way of showing it. She didn't once visit me in the hospital - she didn't even send a card-"

"-only because thinking about how hurt you are pains her! She can't bear it!"

"So, this is about appeasing her guilt," I hissed, turning away. Jordan caught my sleeve and tugged until I faced her.

"This is about family. She _is_ your family, Nick. You owe her some compassion -"

"I don't owe her a thing!"

I shook Jordan's hand off of my coat and turned once more.

"What happened to you, Nick? You used to be so reasonable -"

"I was shot! Why should I be anything I don't want to be? I've paid in blood now - haven't I earned some peace?"

I was aware that people had started to stare, and I was making a terrible scene, and the added threat of social humiliation only upset me further, my face burned, and my eyes stung. I was exhausted, too emotionally eroded for even a primitive anger. I swayed where I stood, and she took my arm again, this time to steady me.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time, and to have spoiled our afternoon, but the past is behind us and if you can't see that then this has all been a mistake," I added, over my shoulder, in a hushed voice.

"Why are you living with him?"

The question shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. She continued speaking, her hand squeezing my arm with a desperate frustration that was unbecoming, and didn’t suit her usual, cool demeanor.

"Why are you choosing him, over your own cousin? The doctor said you saved his life, Nick, why? Why, after all the trouble he's caused Daisy - after all the trouble he's caused all of us?"

White flakes were raining down with a sort of sacred stillness. The silence added weight to it - as though each one, when it landed, increased the distance between Jordan and I, as we'd been in the summer, and as we were now.

"I'm sorry," I said, and walked away, my walking stick carving ugly trenches through the newly fallen snow.

Despite it being some time since the summer, I still knew a few places where a fellow could get a drink, no questions asked. I stopped at one such a place on my way back to Gatsby's.

A part of me still itched for opiates - the pleasurable relief that I'd felt in hospital, where there was nothing that could harm me was very tempting, and I had gone for days without meaningful rest. The fear of becoming one of those hollow-eyed, gaunt strangers who lurked on the edge of society was the only thing that kept me from seeking out heroin.

I thought briefly of Hamlet, and of choosing the darkness you know, and had another drink.

When I arrived home, it was dinner time. I had no enthusiasm for the food itself, but I was calm at last, and Gatsby's presence didn't affect me in the slightest. I had no appetite for the meal in front of me, but the way the candles on the tabletop cast a glossy shine to the gravy on the roast and the candied vegetables was remarkably pretty. I traced a pattern around a piece of carrot with the side of my spoon.

"... and the lawyer told me it's going to begin on January t- are you listening, old sport?"

I looked up at him and he frowned.

"Are you all right? You're very flushed."

I looked down at my hands. Honestly, I didn't think I looked all that terribly pink.

"Nick!"

I blinked, and then frowned. Somehow, the world had turned sideways.

There were hands, then, on my shoulders, pulling me upright, and I realized that I had fallen forward, onto the table. Gatsby was wiping my face with a napkin, and it came away brown with gravy.

He murmured something about me needing some proper sleep, and I let him help me to my feet and steer me towards the guestroom, sagging against him and burying my nose in his neck. He tensed but didn't stop walking until he'd got me to my bed. It was then that he noticed the smell of me, the reek of cheap liquor. He swallowed and sat me on the bed, holding my chin so that I looked at him. He peered at my eyes and I tried to lick the end of his nose when it came close to my face.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"I love you," I sighed and ran the tips of my fingers along his jaw. He recoiled but I didn't care. I sank into the luxurious reindeer pelt and beckoned to him.

"Stay," I pleaded, reaching for him. He shook his head, dodging my clumsy hands.

"I can't do that... Nick, you know that."

"Why not? I won't tell," I whispered, and it all seemed so funny, all this secrecy, so I laughed. He cringed and shook his head again.

"I can't."

"You said you'd..."

I trailed off and nuzzled the pelt.

"Nick..." he said softly, and there was a sadness there. I couldn't understand why he was sad - not when there was this wonderful silken fur stretched out everywhere, and when there were beautiful boxes and big red flowers, and Gatsby's eternally handsome face...

"Where's your smile, Jay?" I asked, reaching to touch his lips. He was too far away and my arm felt like lead, so I relaxed it and it flopped beside me on the mattress.

"I don't feel much like smiling."

"Why not? You have such nice things."

"You... sometimes you sound just like her."

"She? Oh, you mean Daisy. Pre-e-e-etty Dai-sy," I drawled, and reached for him again. He took my hand and placed it back on the bed.

"Daisy the bore," I added, and chuckled. "Daisy the cruel."

"She's your own family, Nick, please."

"I'd sooner have you over any family. She can rot for all I care."

"You're not yourself, Nick, please don't talk like this. I can't listen to morbidity, not from you."

"Why must I play the optimist? I'm more myself now than I've been in years and I mean every word I say - I'd've let her crash, let her go down for it, let her pretty pretty curls burn when they put her in the chair -"

"Don't!" Gatsby screamed and smashed his hand over my mouth, into my teeth. I tasted copper, though whether it was his blood or mine, I couldn't tell, I looked up at him, wide-eyed with terror. I had never thought he'd be like this to me - to Tom, maybe, but never to me. He was shaking with rage and savage and frightening. He recoiled, cradling his hand - it was his blood, then.

His hands fell from me and settled on my chest, and he began to sob. I watched him, too drunk to be shocked by his outburst.

"Why," he lamented, his voice wretched and broken, "why would you say such hateful things? I thought you, of all people..."

"Come... come here," I said, and pulled him to lie next to me. He resisted at first, then relented and I felt like I was in heaven, warm and safe with fur and flowers and Gatsby in my arms at last.

"Didn't mean it, Jay, you know... you need happy, I'll be happy. I'll be anything."

I rolled over slightly and slid my leg over him, cradling him close to me. He struggled but I shushed him.

"Too drunk for that. Just need to hold someone."

He nodded and returned the embrace, his face burning hot, tucked into my chest.

We clung like that together for what felt like hours. Sometimes he wept, sometimes I hummed little comforting tunes, but mostly it was silent but for the sound of our breathing. At some point I drifted off and when I woke, it was morning and he had gone. I sat up, my head aching, and noticed that all the flowers and boxes had gone too.

In their place was an envelope, which I opened, and inside were two tickets to the theatre and a note, hastily written in a familiar hand.

 _Trial on the 10th._  
2 days of freedom.  
Spend them with me?

_\- Jay_

I read the words, stunned, and slowly began to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that.
> 
> This is sort of a filler chapter, but is necessary to show that Gatsby is coming to terms with his need for closeness, and to move the action along. The next chapter will be much more interesting, I promise. -_-'


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get their emotional turmoil on, a date for the trial is set, and Nick finally gets some, almost, but not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: butchering classical history, emotions (which I suck at writing, so be warned), Gatsby being all tragic and sad, Nick being all indignant and sad, boys being sad.
> 
> You wanted me to get to Gatsby's man-pain, so, we are now getting to Gatsby's man-pain.

* * *

    The theatre that Gatsby chose was the sort of place where he wouldn't be remembered or recognized, where he could forget about the publicity that awaited him at the trial. He said he wanted to spend his last few free days with me. He did specify it was my company he desired, and the thought was enough to brighten my spirits, even considering the darkness that loomed over us as the trial drew nearer.

    The evening held a special quality, a rare sort of magic, a sense of purpose. It was a peak before a fall, the last gasp of soldiers before going over the top. Somehow, the threat of Gatsby's conviction made the lights brighter, the showgirls prettier. The gaudy costumes and thick makeup the actors wore became works of living art before our eyes. The play was an off-Broadway release, some bawdy comedy set in the Classical age, which was mostly an excuse for the near-nudity of slave girls, whores and priestesses, historical inaccuracy, and bad slapstick, but in the moment, the aging actors and aspiring young starlets seemed to be their characters, convincingly, in the flesh.

    Gatsby had a couple of bottles of wine hidden in the car, and orders for his chauffeur to take his time driving us home, and we drank with abandon as the driver, likely hired for his pragmatism regarding minor breaches of legality, turned a blind eye. Unlike his old car, this new little one was cramped at best, and each time we rounded a curve, we fell into one another, warm, swaying and intoxicated, laughing as we stumbled through explanations of the shortcomings of the ridiculous play. I remembered, belatedly, that I'd sworn I wouldn't drink with him again - yet here we were. Of course, he'd sworn he wouldn't encourage me to, and it was his wine and his car and his knee brushing mine, so I let my feelings of guilt fade as desire warmed me.

    At last, the house came into view, and we got out and made our way indoors. We were giddy, near hysterics as we stumbled up the steps, clinging to one another for support. Half a bottle of wine remained, and I cradled it in my arms as I staggered across the threshold. Gatsby steered me to the ballroom and told me to sit on the floor, which I did, however irregular a request it seemed at the time. He made to leave and I called after him.

    "I'll be back," he swore. "I have to get something."

    "More wine!" I shouted and he made a sound of agreement and vanished through the doors. I drained the last of my supply and smiled, happy and dazed. Setting the bottle aside, I took my shoes off and loosened my tie, lying flat on the ground, my head pillowed on my arms, which I folded behind my head. I looked up at the lofty ceiling and marvelled at it.

    Gatsby returned momentarily and when he did, I found myself in stitches with laughter.

    In one hand, he had another bottle of wine, retrieved from goodness knows where, in the other, the head of a mop, and a bunch of grapes, and he had abandoned his jacket and vest for a bed sheet and a handful of leaves which were balanced precariously on his head.

    "What are you supposed to be?" I coughed, my sides aching.

    "Bacchus, of course. We're having our own play, since that one was so terrible. Here, put this on - you can be one of my priestesses."

    He threw the mop at me and I put it on my head obediently. The sight made him chortle and stumble towards me. He stood over me, his glorious body wrapped in that ridiculous costume, and I realized that I was, once again, dangerously drunk, yet not quite drunk enough to be incapacitated - I burned for him. He had already uncorked the wine, I noticed, and he held it over my head, grinning.

    "What have you to say to your god?" he boomed theatrically, then leaned forward and hissed at me in a stage whisper. "We're blessing the wine."

    "O, great Bacchus, it is I, your priestess -" I began in a comical falsetto.

    "Devoted priestess," he interrupted.

    "It is I, your devoted priestess -"

    "Fidelia, most beautiful virgin of Rome-"

    "I'm not saying that," I snorted and he held the wine away from me.

    "Bacchus demands it! Go on, play your part!"

    I rolled my eyes and adjusted the mop, which was falling off my head.

    "It is-"

    "From the top!"

    "O, great Bacchus, it is I, your devoted priestess Fidelia, most beautiful virgin of Rome."

    He looked as impressed as I felt that I got all that out without mangling it.

    "The blessing's up to you," he prompted.

    "Bacchus, dear Bacchus, let there be wine," I declared and grinned at him. When he hesitated, I batted my eyes at him.

    "Aren't you going to give me my benediction?" I teased and his face flushed, but he nodded.

    "You have been a good priestess, and so, I give you the wine of the gods!" he declared and tilted the bottle. Wine poured down into my open mouth, over my face, down onto my clothes. I didn't care. I couldn't care, not with him lowering the bottle to my lips. I mouthed at the opening greedily. He leered at me, caught up in his character, and I lost all restraint at the sight. I performed obscenities on the bottleneck with mouth and tongue, looking lustily up at him, and his hands shook so that he nearly let the object go. I placed my hands on it without thinking - I swear, I intended only to steady it. The glass was warm and seemed to thrum with life beneath my fingers, and I slid them along its length until they met the soft, warm skin of his hand.

    I have gone over the moment in detail, the instant my eyes narrowed and his went wide, the way that Gatsby shivered and almost pulled away but didn't. Then all at once I was rising to my feet as he was crouching down and we met half way, the wine abandoned as I wrapped my arms around him at last.

    I could have kissed him at once. I expect he'd thought I would, and I did want to, but holding him, in that moment, clutching him to me without restraint, was in itself an act that I had longed for so that I had to savor it separately for a moment. I pressed my nose into his neck and felt the heat of his skin and the rasp of his stubble against my face. I pressed my first kiss to him there, my mouth closed and my lips pressed tight together.

    I had had too much to drink - I had had too much to drink and surely I had dozed off and Gatsby had helped me up to bed and I was asleep, dreaming, yearning fruitlessly.

    If it was a dream, then, I would make the best of it.

    I shut my eyes and shifted so that my mouth covered his own.

    At first, I was still sure it was an illusion, but then I realized that no dreamed-up Gatsby would falter, would hold me as delicately as he would a woman, and even then show such tension, such hesitance.

    It was no dream.

    My eyes flew open and I pulled back, shocked. The picture he presented was not a flattering one - his mouth swollen and dewy with moisture, his brow furrowed with fear, his face a splotchy beet-red, slightly sweaty, and his hair full of those damned leaves. I lifted a hand and ruffled his hair, scattering the leaves around us.

    "I want you terribly," I murmured, and he swallowed visibly. I let my hand fall to his throat and felt his pulse racing beneath my fingertips.

    "Nick, I... I don't... I don't know what I'm doing," he blabbered. The hysteria was catching and I felt myself break out in gooseflesh.

    "You don't have to do anything. I can compensate, Jay, please," I begged, and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

    "I don't-"

    "I'll make it good for you, Jay, I promise. Please." My plea sounded like the last request of a dying man.

    "N-no. No, Nick, I'm sorry."

    It felt like being shot a second time, as he gently pushed me away. After the sudden hurt came an intense anger that burned hotter than my lust.

    "What the hell was that?" I barked at him and he covered his face with his hands.

    "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he moaned like a chant, rocking back and forth on the floor.

    "You're sorry? How do you think I feel?"

    I could feel tears threatening to spill over and I prayed to whatever divine powers might be listening that I wouldn't cry in front of him. If I was heard, I was ignored, and hot trails of shame dripped down my face. I turned away, scrubbing at them with my shirtsleeve, the mop falling to the floor. He reached for me and I flinched away before reeling around and surging towards him. He raised his hands to defend himself and caught me by the shoulders. I swung at him half-heartedly and he took the feeble blow to his stomach before drawing me close to him. I collapsed against him and sobbed, drunk and disgusted with myself.

    "It's not fair!" I bawled and he tightened his hold on me. "You toy with me and apologize and I'm the one stuck in the lurch!"

    He nodded and stroked the back of my neck.

    "I'm sorry, old sport, I'm -"

    "None of that!" I shouted, louder than I meant to, and dragged myself away, wiping my face clean with my dry sleeve. He let me gather my wits before I spoke.

    "I'd give you everything, and you... you'd take it."

    I hadn't meant to say that, yet once the words were out, I didn't want to retract them, seeing as they were true. He nodded grimly.

    "I know."

    "Then why won't you fix it? Why won't you stop, or let me go on with my life?"

    He looked up at me, his eyes wet and shining.

    "You're the only person who's ever loved me, really loved me. I can't let you go," he admitted sadly.

    "So you'll keep me here, bound to you, never reciprocating -"

    "I don't know if I could-"

    "For God's sake, I'm not asking you to go to bed with me! I just want you to stop pushing me away when you're the one instigating all of this! I could go home right now and pack my things and move away and never see you again -"

    "Is that what you want?"

    He had no right to sound so heartbroken.

    "I want you, Jay, it's all I ever wanted! I've made no secret of that. But if I can't have you properly, I won't settle for pining anymore. Look how that turned out with you and Daisy. It can't last - I - I'd come to hate you. I couldn't bear that."

    Gatsby stared at his hands, balling them into fists, unclenching them, spreading his fingers.

    "Wilson should have shot me," he said suddenly, and I felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room.

    A silence stretched between us for over a minute.

    "What?" I said at last.

    "I've been thinking about it ever since you... if he'd shot me, all of this could have ended. All my... legacy, if you could call it that... it could end. Everyone could forget me. You could forget me."

    He sighed - a despairing sound.

    "What good is any of this, anyhow? What have I too look forward to, after this trial? Prison? Or the empty life I've built for myself here? I don't think I can stand it - I can't even drive anymore! I get sick just thinking about it. I have to walk by that pool every day and the sight of it makes me wish, more and more, that you'd stayed away, that you'd let it happen! I'm torn between gratitude and resentment, Nick, and you don't deserve it... I just wish sometimes that you'd let me die."

    The admission sparked many emotions inside of me. The first was horror, that he would contemplate such things, _him,_ of all people. The second was guilt. I had been so caught up in my own feelings that I'd completely ignored the possibility that he had been changed by the events, as I had.

 _Worse,_ I thought. I reached out instinctively and took his hands in mine. We sat like that for some time before I spoke.

    "I had to save you," I said and he looked at me, his face puffy and tearstained. It was not a pretty sight, yet I loved it, loved him, so much more deeply that before.

    "If you'd died, all the light in the world would have died with you. All the flowers, all the music, all the joy, all the hope... you'd have taken that with you. If I'd known for certain that Wilson's bullet would kill me, I'd still have done it, because the world needs you, Jay. I need you."

    I shuffled closer to him and placed his hands on my side, clasped over the spot where the bullet pierced me.

    "I love you."

    He made a tortured sound and shut his eyes.

    "I don't know how to love," he whimpered. "My whole vision of it's wrong, I got it backwards and I don't know how to -"

    "But do you want to learn?"

    He was staring at me like a frightened animal, close to bolting. I was pushing my luck - this was my last chance - I couldn't stand rejection, not again - but I lifted his hands to my lips and I kissed them tenderly.

    When he nodded, I started to weep in spite of myself, and he did too, and I leaned in and rested my forehead against his as we sobbed for all of it, all the pain and the loss and the scars we carried.

    "Look at us," I laughed weakly. "Crying when we should be celebrating what's left of your freedom."

    He laughed too and accidentally whacked our foreheads together, which stung enough to sober us up a bit.

    This second meeting of lips was slower and so I remember it more clearly. There was an edge of desperation to it - a sadness that I'm sure he felt in some capacity - and that crushed my soul. A sense of 'if only'. If only he'd let me try to show him months ago, if only he'd let me take my cousin's place, if only we'd made the most of the squandered summer -

    - the thoughts gave way to blurred fragments as he began at last to respond to my kissing, to hold me more tightly.

    When we parted to breathe, he seemed almost shy.

    "You have to understand, there's only ever been Daisy, before," he admitted. "I've never... not with a man."

    I nodded.

    "I was in the army, so I've heard stories, you know. Talk. I don't want to do... that, not now."

    It took me a moment to put together the vague statement and realize what he meant.

    "We don't have to - look, you don't even have to touch me," I said quickly, aware that I must seem unbecomingly eager. He shook his head.

    "That wouldn't be fair. I want... I don't know what I want. What do you want?"

    That was a dangerous question, but I was weary, drained of emotions, completely exhausted, and he was the same.

    "I'd like to get some sleep, actually," I said, and he looked relieved.

    "Good idea, old sport."

    We both stood up and looked at one another, unsure of how to proceed.

    "I'm going to my room," I said slowly, and Gatsby nodded.

    "But if you would like to join me, I'll leave it up to you. Just to sleep, mind. Just like we did before."

    He nodded again.

    "I'd like that, awfully," he said. I smiled and left him to clean up the evidence of our aborted dramatics. As I dressed for bed, I pinched myself. I wasn't sure what to feel - joy and sadness were at war inside me. He was letting me take liberties with him, at last, but only because he had nothing else left to live for. It was hard to get my head around, least of all when I was tired and full of wine.

    When my head hit the pillow, I immediately began to doze off, and scarcely noticed the door opening and shutting. I did notice the presence of someone joining me under the covers, keeping a modest distance from me until I reached out, eyes closed, and pulled him close. He relaxed somewhat and I listened to his breathing, trying to match it with my own until the slow rhythm put me to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makeouts, cockblocking, boundary negotiation.  
> PTSD, regret, chestnuts.
> 
> Life is a rollercoaster for these two, of late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: I AM A BIG DUMB ASSHAT because in the last chapter, I erroneously stated the trial would be on the 15th. That was incorrect, and has been corrected. It is the 10th, which is THE DAY AFTER THIS CHAPTER TAKES PLACE.
> 
> The 15th is when Nick has to hand some work in because, seriously, he can't just lie around being emo forever. He needs to make a living.
> 
> Also I don't honestly enjoy mouth to mouth kissing, much, so I really didn't know how to write this without it sounding gross. XD Any other kissing is fine, but honestly, I'd rather kiss a nostril or a love-handle or an ankle or something, than kiss a mouth, so here's my fucked up attempt at romance. *buries self alive in a grave of my failures*
> 
> THE NEXT TWO CHAPTERS WILL BE ABOUT THE TRIAL.

* * *

Gatsby was entangled with me when I woke in the morning. He had rolled onto my leg, which had gone numb, and had stolen most of the sheets, but I didn't mind. I would have laid there for an eternity, just watching him snoring softly, his mouth softly open, a bead of salvia clinging to his lower lip and crusting there. It was so different from the Gatsby the world saw. Somehow I doubt he'd even have shown this side of himself to Daisy - so fearful of shattering his illusion with anything less than perfection. Yet the imperfect humanity, the intimacy of seeing him, unguarded, in sleep, filled me with joy. It was mine to see, mine alone, a gesture of trust that I couldn't, for all my writer’s ways, put into words.

I took my time getting out of bed, did my best not to wake him. I performed my morning ablutions, cleaned my teeth and washed my face, and dried it with a towel. When I returned, Gatsby was awake, but he had not moved. When he saw me, he smiled slightly, and I saw there was anxiety in his eyes.

"You look spritely, given how drunk we were last night," he chuckled nervously.

"That's not, strictly speaking, all that drunk, for me. How about you, how do you feel? I imagine your mind must be in quite a muddle today."

It was a sportsmanlike gesture, on my part, a last chance for him to turn and run.

"I remember it well enough," he said. "Let's not... dance around it, Nick. We both remember what we said."

"And did," I added, and he nodded, cheeks coloring.

"Yes," he echoed, and ran his hand over his hair. He pulled out a leaf, which, against all odds, had survived the evening. I took it from his hands and placed it on the nightstand, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

"I enjoyed what we did. Immensely," I said softly and reached out to touch his jaw. He clenched it instinctively and a shudder ran through him. I continued as considerately as I could, aware that I might have to prompt him, but also that I could conceivably push too far, too fast.

"I'd like to do more of it. Would you?"

He squinted and nodded.

"I... I'll have to wash up first, if you don't mind."

"I don't."

I settled back into the softness of the bed and stroked the reindeer pelt passively. I hoped he wouldn't change his mind on me, but it was a possibility. More likely was the possibility that I'd come on too strong and scare him off - the evidence of my interest in him was visibly tenting my sleep pants. I had just managed to adjust them so that he wouldn't be the wiser when at last he returned, his face flushed from having been freshly washed - water dripping from the ends of his hair, his nose, and his chin.

He sat by me and I wound my fingers in his hair. He swallowed reflexively as I brought my lips towards his.

"Shut your eyes, if it helps," I suggested and he did so. I kissed him, our third, real kiss, and it was everything I had longed for. Yes, he was timid at first, slow to take to the affection, and yes, he tilted his head the wrong way and bent my nose at an odd angle, but it was warm and gentle and genuine and crystal clear in my mind, without the haze of drink.

I scraped my fingernails over his scalp in light, repetitive movements and he groaned against my mouth, giving me the chance to kiss him deeper still. When his tongue slid along mine, my heart sang.

I had never really loved, not with all my heart, until Gatsby. I had read about it - had seen people who seemed to think the world of each other - and didn't doubt that such a phenomenon existed, but the thought that I could find it seemed extraordinary, when the majority of my experiences with intimacy had been awkward schoolboy fumbling or hasty trysts in sordid rooms where men met each other for impersonal coupling with fear of policemen ever-present on my mind. Relations of the kind to which I was partial were not typically long-term affairs, given the need for secrecy and anonymity.

Yet I had hoped...

Gatsby was a delight to kiss, by far an ideal subject if ever there was one. He was a quick study, and increasingly bold with his gestures, though, when he dared to catch my lower lip between his teeth and I failed to suppress a grunt of enjoyment, he tensed and restrained into himself until I repeated the gesture on him and assured him that I was more than satisfied with his actions.

The positioning of it, with both of us seated side-by-side, my torso twisted sideways, put a strain on my wound, and the pain made me hiss, breaking away from Gatsby, pressing my hand to the spot.

"Sorry," I coughed, "not all that comfortable, for me."

Gatsby's response was to pull me by my wrist until I was kneeling over him, one of his thighs between my open legs. It was an invitation to take things further, but one I wasn't certain he'd intended to offer me. For the moment, much as it made me ache and yearn, I kept from sinking down to straddle the limb.

"Are you enjoying this?" I asked when we paused to catch our breath. He nodded, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You could tell me," I murmured against the corner of his mouth.

"I just di-"

"Tell me what you like," I breathed against his ear and caught the lobe of it between my teeth. Gatsby's moan caught in his throat. I wanted to hear it - to recapture the openness I'd seen while he slept. I moved to suck on his throat and when he groaned, I felt the vibrations against my lips.

I reached for the top button of his pyjamas and he stiffened, eyes wide and dark, pupils so big I swore I could have drowned in them.

"Can I-?"

"Yes, _God_ yes."

Our tongues sparred as I worked his shirt off him. Once it was off, I tossed it roughly to the floor, impatient. I pushed on his shoulder and he reclined, so that I could finally look at him.

I placed my palms over his pectorals, spread my fingers against tanned, hot skin.

"You're perfect," I murmured in spite of myself and he tried to chuckle self-deprecatingly, but the sound became a gasp as I scratched lightly over his skin and leaned over to kiss his clavicle.

"Talk to me, Jay, please. So I know I'm not dreaming," I requested quietly.

"N-Nick," he stammered as I bit down gently on his nipple and soothed it with kisses.

"Nick," he tried again as I licked across to the other side of chest and repeated the action.

"I like this," he whimpered as I teased him, alternating between rough nips and tender kisses. I ghosted my fingers over his stomach and he laughed breathlessly and squirmed.

"I'd never have guessed you were ticklish," I grinned and he smiled back, and I was sure I saw some of the old Jay, eternal optimist, in it.

"I'd like to - _ah -_ to know if you - you are," he panted as I shuffled backwards and moved down to his navel. I bathed him in kisses and swipes of my tongue and when I shifted my weight, I felt evidence of his interest swell against me. I reached down to touch him, but he rolled me onto my back so suddenly it was as though the wind were knocked out of me.

"Sorry - your side - I wasn't thinking-"

"It's fine," I assured him and tried to remain suave and composed as I unbuttoned my shirt. Of course, my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly manage the buttons and Gatsby had to help me half way, but all things considered, I did a commendable job.

My own chest wasn't anything too handsome, in my opinion. It was narrow and lean, a bit pale, and marred on one side by scar tissue where Wilson's bullet had ripped through me. It was an ugly wound, not something most people would want to look at, let alone touch, yet Gatsby's fingertips traced it faintly and his eyes shone with wetness at the sight.

"To think you did that for me," he murmured and shook his head. "You're so good, Nick. So good and kind. You're the best man I know."

I warmed at the praise and luxuriated against the pelt as he began to kiss my neck and shoulders, mirroring the affection I'd given him earlier. I took the chance to show him just how I'd hoped he'd vocalize his pleasure, threading my fingers through his hair and letting my moans flow, unrestrained, from my lips.

"Yes, Jay, just like that," I keened when he licked at my earlobe and he repeated the action diligently. His broad palms slid over my fevered skin, ghosting across the planes of my body, always settling near the wound.

When he lowered his mouth to that spot, I was surprised and even afraid. His tongue traced along the web of raised tissue, the violence that marred my flesh, and he kissed the injury with genuine affection.

I chanted his name, a private litany, and let affection hang on every word. _I love you, I love you, I love you, perfect, darling Jay,_ and as I cried out my adoration I clutched him close to me, pulled him up to kiss me on the mouth and held him tight and desperate, delirious with love.

As he bit down teasingly on my throat, I pushed my hips against his and ground into the hardness there that surged against my answering arousal.

"I want you to fuck me," I blurted out and all at once he was retreating from me, into himself, and I'd as good as thrown our romancing into the fire for all he looked like he'd been burned, been stung by my demand.

I should have said something, anything to break that awful silence but I couldn't. Like a third party, it settled, uninvited, between us on the bed.

"Nick, I can't..."

"Of course you can't."

My response wasn't bitter or angry, it was dead. Dead words on my tongue. Dead sentiment.

"You didn't like it."

"I did, Nick... too much - I - you must realize how difficult it is for me!"

"For you."

"Yes! You... you're asking me to break the law, for one thing-"

"You've had no qualms about breaking it before."

He looked aghast and I shook my head.

"That was unkind of me. I'm sorry. I just... I've wanted you for ages, and of course I'll stop, I'll always stop, if you don't like it, but the trial is tomorrow and if I lose you now I won't be able to cope."

His frown softened and he took my face in his hands and kissed it gently - the first kiss that was entirely his idea. He bumped his nose against mine and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you, Jay. You know I do, more than -"

"I think I could... could grow to love you. Someday, if you show me what it means. But I won't spoil this with haste. It has to be perfect."

I shook my head.

"Who wants perfect? I want imperfect. I want to see every flaw and every scar and I want to know them, to know you better than anyone else in the world. Perfect was for Daisy, Jay, what she wanted. I just want you."

He looked as though he might cry, and given that, for two grown men in our prime, we had both done far too much of that, as of late, I continued before he could begin.

"But if you want to do this without the threat of trial pushing us on, then I'll wait. Even if..." and I paused, for the gravity of what I was saying was not lost on me, "even if you are convicted, sent to prison... I'll wait."

He smiled then, and it was as close to his old smile as he'd gotten since the summer.

"Thanks, old sport."

And for once, there was a quality to the term that was weighted, pointed. It wasn't a brotherly title, anymore, it was a loving endearment. I smiled back, I couldn't keep from smiling. It was the first time I'd ever been rebuffed and yet remained joyful, beaming, hopeful.

With that bit of reciprocal affection, he'd restored my hope.

 

+++

"What would you like to do today?" I asked as I dressed.

Gatsby sat on the bed, watching me, the reindeer pelt pooled around his waist. I took some satisfaction at the thought of what it might be concealing, and made a bit of a show of it, practicing some morning stretches in the nude, before I put my clothes on. I caught him stealing a glance at my person, and when I asked if he'd like a better view he turned crimson and stared at the floor.

"I'd like to go out," he said. "Enjoy the daylight. Go for a drive, maybe."

"I'm game. Come on, let's get you dressed and we can have breakfast."

I followed him into his room and sat expectantly on the bed.

"Go on, it's only fair," I grinned and he turned from me before shucking off his clothes with impressive speed. With his back to me, I could marvel, unabashedly, at the firm, round globes of his buttocks, which reduced me nearly to tears with their impeccable pertness. He laid out some underpants and an undershirt on the bed, and I reached for the articles childishly, holding them behind my back. He grabbed for them, realized they'd gone, and looked over his shoulder at me.

"You'll have to fight me for them, I'm afraid," I leered. "I've commandeered them."

He rolled his eyes and turned to face me, one hand cupped over himself as he reached with the other to swipe them back.

"You're at a distinct disadvantage," I teased, passing the bundle of clothing back and forth between my hands. He blushed and made a grab for both of my hands, exposing himself to me at last. I barely got a look before he was turned round again, dressing with haste.

"Sometimes you're no better than a schoolboy," he chided, but there was no anger in it.

"I know. You should have known me AS a schoolboy, I was much worse."

"I think you weren't. I think you were one of those too-good children whose corruption goes unnoticed until adulthood."

"I think you're a bit of a prude for a military man," I laughed and tickled him, and he squirmed away to put his trousers on. As he buttoned his suspenders to his waistband, I continued taunting him, playful as a child.

"I imagine you were quite a character yourself, at that age. All daydreams of success, goals, ambition."

He shrugged.

"I don't think about my boyhood, often."

There was a tone in his voice that suggested that, while he'd enjoyed himself thus far, he'd appreciate if I dropped that particular topic, so I did.

"Where'd you like to drive to?" I asked instead.

"I haven't made up my mind yet. I've got a few places in mind."

"Well, if you could ask your driver to take us to the shops I could do with a trip to the barber. I'd like to look presentable for your trial, else the judge and jury and everyone thinks you go around with the wrong crowd."

He paused, his hands stilling halfway through buttoning his shirt.

"I don't want to use my driver today," he said slowly. I grew solemn at the realization.

"Oh... you're sure...?"

"No," he admitted, "but I have to try sometime."

We took a quick breakfast, over which we agreed to go to the shops so that I could get my hair cut and Gatsby could run some undisclosed errands. As we made our way to the garage, I could see by the way his skin paled and his breathing changed that he was hesitant to get behind the wheel.

We made it as far as my house in the little black car before he pulled over suddenly, wrenched open the door, and was sick all over the road. I patted his knee as he retreated inside, shutting out the cold air, and offered him my handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

"That was a disaster," he said bitterly. I shook my head.

"You made it farther than you'd have done yesterday."

He nodded, but I could tell he was unhappy.

"How about you drive us back to your house, and we'll call for the driver and get him to take us into the city. Can you do that, or shall I run over and have him meet us here?"

Gatsby shook his head.

"I think I can manage... at least, I'll try."

We drove back to the house at a snail's pace, Gatsby gripping the steering wheel for dear life, but we got there nonetheless. The driver, if he'd noticed our efforts, made no comment.

In town, I found a cheap barber who gave me a trim and a shave, and stopped to buy some chestnuts from a man on a street corner as I walked towards the car. Gatsby appeared shortly after, holding, of all things, a bouquet of flowers.

"Those had better not be for me," I teased and he shook his head. We both settled into the back of the car and Gatsby leaned over and murmured something to the driver. I ate a chestnut and burnt my tongue. We drove in silence.

I wasn't sure where we were going, yet I had not expected that we'd wind up at a cemetery, of all places. I held my singed tongue and followed Gatsby as he waded through the snow, weaving between gravestones. We must have walked for all of five minutes. All at once, he came to a sudden stop before a handsome marker. On impulse, I wiped the snow off the name and recoiled when I realized who it was we were visiting.

Myrtle Wilson's gravestone was a fine one - one that spoke perhaps of a rich benefactor. My mind immediately suggested that Tom might have, feeling something akin to guilt, paid for it for her, yet, it was just as likely, if not more so, that Gatsby would simply have ordered her a nicer stone after George had shot himself - done it anonymously in an effort to put things right.

I looked over at him, but he seemed disinclined to speak. He placed the flowers on the ground and stared at them for a few minutes before turning and heading back the way we'd came. I followed and waited until we were back in the car before opening my mouth to speak. Something in his eyes made me change my mind, and I turned and looked out the window instead.

"I'm sorry all of this happened," he said suddenly. I glanced back at him and set my hand next to his.

"Me too," I said. "But the past is the past."

He didn't reply, but he squeezed my fingers. I sensed that this moment was a profound one, and that I ought to say something, yet the only thing that came to mind seemed inappropriate. I said it anyhow.

"Chestnut?"

He looked confused, and then relieved, and nodded, and I handed him the paper bag. He pried open the cooling ball and its flesh slid out perfectly onto his palm. I took one for myself and when I cracked it, the insides crumbled and broke.

I wondered if I was reading into it, that I feared this was some ill omen, some tension between us. The silence was back again, but as I hadn't caused it, I didn't know how to make it disappear. The ups and downs of the past two days had exhausted my ability to think or speak, and still I had the trial to worry about, and a script to write for work which was due on the fifteenth. I hadn't even started. I stared down at the nut in my hand, and gave it to Gatsby. My appetite had entirely gone.


End file.
